


Straight On Til Morning

by xylodemon



Series: deancas codas: season nine [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing Cas had been easier than all the conversations he didn't know how to start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight On Til Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for the mysterious time gap in 9x06.

It was Dean's usual brand of cheap motel, all sunny yellows and sickly greens, the paint peeling in chips beneath the windows and the linoleum faded in the kitchenette, cracked and curling up where it curved out to meet the front door. The curtains sat askew, letting in a thin slice of moonlight and the angry glow of the vacancy sign. Everything smelled of shag carpet and the ghost of old cigarette smoke, just like all the no-tells he'd shared with Sam over the years, places where he'd bled and drank and slept, where Cas had popped in on him without any warning, just a phantom itch at the back of his neck and the careful flutter of invisible wings.

That Cas had been strange and fearless and pretty close to invincible; even at his most human, even with his brain twisted around Sam's hallucinations, there had still been something a little otherworldly about him, something subtly but obviously different, a piece of him that had burned too brightly, that had seemed a bit too sharp around the edges, a muted buzz of power and wrath. This Cas looked tired and hurt and smelled faintly of sweat; he was shaking and breathless, had heavy shadows under his eyes and a tight set to his jaw. Dean kissed the taut line of it, his lips rasping over stubble and skin, then dipping down to Cas' neck, to the hollow of Cas' throat. Cas moaned into Dean's hair, desperate and low, a noise that made Dean want to bite down, leave a mark that would flare purplish-red and ache by morning, that would peek past the collar of Cas' stupid blue vest.

He kissed Cas' cheek and the point of Cas' chin, the corner of his mouth and the hinge of his jaw, the dark hair curling damply at his temple and the soft skin hidden behind his ear. He tipped Cas' face up and kissed his mouth, all slow lips and slick tongue, and he ran his hand down Cas' side, his thumb chasing the lines of Cas' ribs, his palm pausing over Cas' tattoo, pressing there before settling at his hip. Their legs were tangled together, their feet trapped by the scratchy chenille bedspread. Cas moaned again and pulled Dean closer; his good hand clutched at Dean's arm, and his injured hand slid down to rest at the small of Dean's back, a warm press of fingers and the cottony brush of Cas' bandage.

That had been easy enough to deal with -- whiskey and dental floss, then more whiskey and gauze -- and Dean had been almost grateful for the distraction, for the familiar routine, a reason not to dwell on anything else, the strained silence on the ride back from Nora's, the quietly clipped tone in Cas' voice when he'd explained that he was homeless, that he'd been sleeping in the back room of the gas station. He'd barely flinched as Dean stitched him up, just flushing and biting his lip, then cursing under his breath, clumsily, like he hadn't really known how, like it was something he'd picked up from customers who'd spilled their coffee or locked their keys in their car. The guilt brimming in Dean's chest had finally welled up like fresh blood from a bullet wound, rising until he could taste it in the back of his throat; kissing Cas had been easy enough as well, easier than all the secrets Dean still had to keep, all the apologies he couldn't yet make, the conversations he didn't know how to start.

The bed creaked as Cas arched underneath him, rattling against the wall as Cas hooked his leg around Dean's and pushed his hips up, his hot face hidden in the curve of Dean's neck, his mouth open and wet against Dean's skin. Dean leaned over him, slipping his arm under Cas' body to pull him closer; he wrapped his other hand around Cas' cock, stroking him slow and easy, in time with the roll of his own hips, the steady drag of his own cock rubbing against Cas' thigh. Heat was already coiling in his gut, flaring and sharp, sparking with each needy noise Cas made, ready to snap. He nosed at Cas' jaw until lips caught the corner of Cas' mouth, then kissed Cas until they were both breathless, until Cas was digging his fingernails into Dean's arm.

"Dean," Cas said, his eyes too wide and too blue. Too human. "Dean, I'm... I'm -- "

"Yeah, come on." Dean rolled them so that Cas was on top, so that Cas could sit up and fuck his fist. "Do it. I want to see you."

Cas took a shaky breath and started to move, slowly at first, then faster, his hips working in a jerky rhythm, his hand braced above Dean's shoulders, his fingers twisted in the dingy sheets. He leaned down and rested his forehead against Dean's; a dark flush was spreading over his jaw, pushing up toward his cheeks. Dean tightened the hand on Cas' cock, twisting his wrist as he stroked up the length and rubbing his thumb over the head, and Cas came with a rough, beautiful sound that itched at something beneath Dean's skin. Dean wrapped his arm around Cas' waist, pulling Cas close as Cas collapsed on top of him, as Cas mumbled his name and kissed his neck, and he finished himself off with a wet handful of Cas' come, wondering how he was going to go home tomorrow, how he was going to drive away and leave Cas behind.

The vacancy sign flashed on, painting Cas' back in faint splotches of red, and Dean chased them with his fingers, tapping a spot between Cas' shoulder blades, another along Cas' side, another at the dip of his spine, another just above his hip.

"What time do you work?" Dean asked, because the silence felt like failure. He could hear voices in the dull buzz of the air conditioner -- Ephraim casually discussing the depth of Cas' pain, Cas telling Ephraim that he wanted to live.

"Six."

The clock read one twenty-five; Dean sighed and pressed a kiss to Cas' temple. "You should sleep."

"No."

"Why not?"

Cas brushed his thumb over Dean's nipple, smiling when Dean swallowed a noise. "Are you leaving in the morning?"

"Cas," Dean said, looking up at the ceiling. Guilt was pushing up into his throat again, salty and sour and thick enough to drown him. "It's not like I -- "

"Yes or no."

"I, um." Dean cleared his throat. "Yes."

"Then I'd rather stay awake."

He nudged his thigh between Dean's legs and leaned up for another kiss.


End file.
